


further to fly

by kaydeefalls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-War, Suicidal Ideation, Written before Deathly Hallows, totally jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-05
Updated: 2007-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:26:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over. Harry never expected to survive it. (Written before DH; goes AU post-HBP.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	further to fly

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was completed in early 2007, well before the release of Book 7. It has not been beta-ed. It was so utterly jossed by "Deathly Hallows" that I abandoned it without ever posting it. Call this my ex-fandom amnesty fic.
> 
> Trigger warnings for depression and vague suicidal ideation.

And when Harry wakes up the next morning, it takes him a few long, grasping moments before he remembers: it's over.

It's over.

* * *

He hears people screaming in his dreams, but he can't tell who. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to remember.

* * *

"I've brought you some chocolate," Hermione says, smiling too brightly and pacing around the room. "You'd better hide it from the Healers though, they're being ridiculous, you don't know what I had to go through to get in here, the whole _ward_ is closed off and it's only because I shouted louder than Grimblewurst that they even let me stop by for a _second_ while you were still out—"

"Hermione," Harry says softly.

"—but at least they're also keeping the press away and it's a lovely room, isn't it," as she wanders over to the window, fiddles with the curtains, draws back, "not particularly cheery, but that's St. Mungo's for you, you've got a lovely view of the courtyard here, you'll appreciate that when you're well enough to get up and walk a bit, and oh the chocolate, that's right, Lupin says you'd appreciate it and I figure he's been in enough scrapes to know what he's talking about—"

"Hermione," Harry says again, more forcefully. He catches her arm as she paces past him again, reins her in, pulls her down to perch at the edge of his bed. "It's done. It's over."

She stares at him for a long, terrible moment, then bursts into tears.

* * *

Hermione was right. He stares out that window a long time, not really seeing but still registering the sunlight on his face or the rain lashing against the pane, the wind and air and sky. The potions the Healers gave him to close his scars and ease his pain also cast a shadowy veil over his memories, but that's all right. He isn't ready to draw it back yet; the past can stay where it is.

* * *

When Ron finally comes to visit him, still pale and unsteady from the curse that had cut through to his heart and left him sprawled and broken across the uncaring ground – when Ron finally comes to visit him, the veil across Harry's memories falls back, and he remembers everything, every last detail, every scream and dying gasp, flooding him, overwhelming him.

He closes his eyes and turns his head away, and Ron just sits beside the bed and lets him be.

* * *

_"Kill me," he told Hermione, and all the color drained from her face._

_"Kill me," he said again, "and then kill him. It's the only way."_

_"But only you can kill him," she said._

_And she hadn't done it. He had depended on her, but she hadn't done it._

* * *

"How long had you known?" Ron asks quietly, a few days later.

Harry's surprised it's taken him this long, but he wishes it could be put off for a lot longer. "Known what?"

If Ron finds his feigned ignorance irritating, he doesn't let it show. "That you were the last Horcrux."

Harry shrugs, fingering the open window curtains, the sunlight glittering against his glasses. "I don't remember. A while."

"You could've _told_ us," Ron says, and now he's irritated. Angry, even. "We could've found a way to—"

"No," Harry says flatly. "You couldn't have."

Ron grasps the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles go white. He strains to keep his voice even. "So you just walked in there knowing that you were going to die?"

"That was the plan, yes."

"But you didn't." Ron's eyes blaze.

"No," Harry says, yanking the curtains closed harshly. He suddenly hates the sun for shining so cheerily. "Luna did."

* * *

A list of the dead is printed in the _Daily Prophet_. Full obituaries for all to follow in the next edition.

Harry memorizes it, then throws the paper away. So many. So many.

* * *

Ginny has her own tiny room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's. She lies in her bed, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling, face completely devoid of expression.

"The snakebite did this?" Harry asks, watching her through the little window in the door.

"They don't know," Ron replies, his voice cracking. He looks close to tears. "Maybe the bite, maybe the backlash from destroying the Horcrux…they don't know. She's alive, technically – breathes, drinks from a straw when the Healers put it up to her lips – but whatever made her _Ginny_ is just…gone. She just _left_ , somehow."

Harry ought to feel sad, he thinks. Something. But he doesn't. "Lucky Ginny," he says shortly, and turns away.

* * *

_"You don't have time," Ginny told him, pushing her hair back out of her face and leaving a smear of dirt or blood across her forehead. "What if there's backlash, like the last one? You can't do it yourself, Harry. You need to go."_

_Neville's hand on his shoulder. "She's right. Call the snake to us, we'll take care of it."_

_He hesitated, reaching out to Ginny. She squeezed his hand. "You saved me from a snake once," she said softly. "Now it's my turn."_

_"Harry, there's no time," Neville said._

_They were right. He pulled Ginny to him for one swift, rough kiss. And then he called to Nagini, and she came, and he ran, forcing himself to ignore the burst of magic behind him._

* * *

He wonders if maybe Ginny will die like that, eyes wide and blank, mind empty. He envies her that emptiness. His mind is full to bursting, crowded with the hopes and dreams and failures of the dead, and he doesn't like to sleep because his dreams are filled with screaming.

He envies Ginny her emptiness, but even more, he envies the dead. It should have been him.

* * *

Hermione is brisk, businesslike. "The Healers want to keep you under observation for a few more weeks, but there's no use in just sitting about in the meantime."

Harry thinks there are plenty of uses for just sitting about, like trying to will himself dead with his brain, which was his chief occupation yesterday afternoon. But he thinks maybe Hermione doesn't want to hear that.

"I think it's time you start putting some serious thought into what you want to do once they let you out of here," she goes on. "Tonks told me to tell you that you're guaranteed a place in the Auror Academy, if you'd like. I know that's what you've always wanted, so I'm sure—"

"I don't want to be an Auror," Harry interrupts her.

She blinks. "But I thought you—"

"Not anymore." At the expression on her face, he forces his lips into some semblance of a smile. "Chasing miscreants, hunting down minor Dark artifacts – it'd all be rather anticlimactic now, don't you think?"

"Well, I suppose, but—"

"No Aurors," he says firmly. "And no lists!" he adds, seeing her hand stray towards her bag.

She gives him an affronted look. "What _are_ you going to do, then?"

"Nothing," he says bluntly, looking away. "I already did what I was supposed to do. I got rid of Voldemort. What else is there?"

Hermione steps forward and touches his shoulder. "The rest of your life," she tells him softly, her brow creased with worry.

He shakes her off, but the dead cry out to him. Pleading. Accusing.

* * *

The day Harry checks himself out of St. Mungo's, the air is thick and still with the knowledge of impending rain, and the sky is leaden. He hadn't told anyone he was leaving, so no one is there to meet him, to talk to him, to take him home. There's a throng of idle reporters hanging about the lobby, so he slips out the back way instead. He has nothing to say to them.

He has nowhere to go, so he goes nowhere, just stands in the empty alleyway and stares up at the sky until the first raindrops begin to fall.

He eventually winds up at Grimmauld Place, the only place he can think of that will take him in without asking questions. It's empty and silent as a tomb, and that's all he wants.

* * *

He can recite the names of all those who died in the last battle, Voldemort's final assault on Hogwarts. It had made the attack on the school at the end of Harry's sixth year look like child's play. He knows the names of the dead, all the dead, good and bad alike, and knows how each and every one died. Professor Flitwick, trapped in the Astronomy Tower when it collapsed. Hannah Abbott, fell Petrified into the lake. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, who together took down eleven Death Eaters in the dungeons before they were finally finished off. Kingsley Shacklebolt, last seen locked in a duel with Antonin Dolohov, body never found. Bill Weasley, fell from his hexed broom into a circle of Death Eaters. Fleur Delacour Weasley, hit in the back with a stray Killing Curse, never knowing her husband had gone just before her. Fred Weasley, torn apart by more hexes than even he could name. And so many more, so many.

Luna Lovegood, heart burst within her chest from the strain of lifting and destroying the Horcrux lodged within the lightning-bolt scar on the forehead of Harry Potter.

Luna's grave is in a small wizarding cemetery near Ottery St. Catchpole. It's small and grey and far too ordinary-looking, just her name and dates and the Ravenclaw crest. It doesn't seem right, somehow – Luna, of all people, ought to have had a different sort of headstone, something strange and wonderful.

Harry traces the engraved letters with a finger, and the raven in the crest tilts its head a bit, watching him. "It shouldn't have been her," Harry tells it. "I would have stopped her, if I'd known. But she just went ahead and—" Something catches in his throat, and he swallows hard. "Why did she do it?"

The raven ruffles its feathers, but has no answers. When Harry pulls his hand away from the stone, the bird goes still, as though it had never moved at all.

* * *

Some days, he just doesn't get out of bed.

* * *

He puts his wand in a box and shoves it into the back of a drawer in the armoire in Sirius's old room, and then he closes the door to the room and locks it. He leaves the key in the pocket of his old school robes, which he never looks at anymore. He only wears Muggle clothing these days, jeans and T-shirts and jumpers. He cleans the house using mops and damp cloths, and when he needs anything, a book or a glass of water, he fetches it himself.

He sent an ugly bolt of green lightning out of his wand once, and he wasn't locked up in Azkaban for it, and he doesn't think that's justice. So he locks up the wizard Harry Potter himself, leaving only the shell.

* * *

_Voldemort knew, when Luna destroyed the last Horcrux. He knew that he was now mortal, and he forgot everything: how to fight, how to lead, how to defend himself; all lost, utterly consumed by absolute, unadulterated terror._

_"Please," the man who was once the Dark Lord whimpered._

_Harry glanced at Luna's crumpled body, then back at Voldemort. Bellatrix Lestrange had told him once that he was incapable of casting an Unforgivable, that he couldn't want it badly enough. At the time, she had been right._

_That was a long time ago, though._

_He didn't hesitate. He raised his wand._

* * *

The day Draco shows up on the doorstep at Grimmauld Place, it's hard to tell who's more surprised.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Draco blurts out, instinctively groping for his wand.

Harry blinks. "Shouldn't that be my line?"

"This is the Black ancestral home. You're not a Black!"

"Oh," Harry says, and wonders why he thought going to the door wandless was a good idea. He fidgets with the hem of his sleeve instead. "That. Well, Sirius left it to me in his will."

Draco just stares at him for a long moment. "Oh, _bollocks_ ," he finally says, with feeling, and sinks down onto the steps, burying his head in his hands.

It's a very awkward moment for the both of them.

* * *

If anyone had told Harry a year ago that he and Draco Malfoy would be having tea together in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, he would have thought they were barking mad. Harry _hated_ Draco. Absolutely despised him. That Harry would have hexed Draco on sight.

But a lot of things that had seemed so important before the war just don't much matter to Harry anymore.

"It figures," Harry comments in disgust. "So many people died or were maimed or lost their minds – it figures that _you'd_ survive."

Draco lets out a short bark of laughter, sounding suspiciously Sirius-like. Blood will out, apparently. "Right," he says dryly. "You make it sound so easy."

"We all thought you hadn't," Harry says with a shrug. "Seems a bit unfair, if you ask me, given the circumstances."

Draco glares into his teacup. "What you don't know about my circumstances could fill several libraries, Potter."

"Well, no one's seen you in over a year. As far as I could tell, _I_ was the last person to see you – the night Snape killed Dumbledore." It's easier to say every time. Harry's seen much worse since that night.

Draco's head jerks up, and his eyes meet Harry's for the first time. "You were there?"

"Invisibility Cloak. Comes in handy sometimes."

"I should've known," Draco mutters. "I expect you've discovered _why_ he did it, by now."

"Yeah," Harry says, staring into his tea. "We found out." After a moment, he looks back up, with eerie calm. "So what brings you here? I gather you weren't seeking my company."

"Well," Draco drawls, "as the last male heir of the Black family, I'd thought the house would naturally fall to me. I seem to have been mistaken."

"Why now?" Harry demands. "You didn't seem to have been interested in it before."

"You might not have noticed, Potter, being so busy saving the world and all, but your precipitous murder of the Dark Lord – for which I must admit I am grateful – has, alas, failed to completely eradicate his followers." Draco levitates his empty teacup, examining it appraisingly. "Many of whom would be delighted to take me down with them." Abruptly, he releases the cup from the spell and lets it drop, watching it shatter against the stone floor with grim satisfaction. "I'd hoped this house, given its reputed…distaste for outsiders, might be a good place to lie low for a while."

Harry crosses his arms, unimpressed. "And why should I help you? I could as easily turn you over to the Aurors for questioning. Or Moody, I'm sure he'd love a word or two."

"Mad-Eye made it through?" Draco shudders. "Now _that's_ unfair."

Harry's mouth twitches in spite of himself. "And he's just a Floo call away. Shall I do the honors, or—"

"Don't be so thick, Potter," Draco snaps. "You'll help me now because _I_ helped _you_ win your fucking war. Or did you think Slytherin's locket just turned up in the post?"

"Ah," Harry says intelligently. He blinks a few times. "What?"

Draco shoots him a venomous glare. "Among other things. I can make a list if you'd like. God, you really _are_ that thick, aren't you? And here I thought it was all an act."

"But why?" Harry asks. "Why help us? You _hated_ me, Malfoy."

"Don't flatter yourself," Draco mutters, kicking distractedly at the shards of ex-teacup. "I still hate you. I just came to realize that there were worse things in the world than Harry fucking Potter."

* * *

He sends Hedwig off with a message for Hermione; within a couple of hours, she Apparates into the kitchen at Grimmauld Place with a loud crack, already in mid-rant.

"—just up and left without telling _anyone_ where you were going, and it's been a _week_ and no one's heard from you, honestly Harry are you trying to worry us all to _death_ —"

When she starts to repeat herself, Harry interrupts her. "Did you bring the Veritaserum, like I asked?"

She tosses her hair back. "Of course I did, and I expect a full explanation as to—"

Harry takes two steps across the room and yanks open the kitchen door. Draco sprawls ungraciously across the floor. "It's rude to eavesdrop, Malfoy," Harry says mildly.

Draco scowls and pulls himself back up to his feet with dignity.

"Oh, good," Hermione says unexpectedly to Draco. "I was worried you hadn't made it through."

Draco brushes himself off, frowning at a dust mote that clings stubbornly to his sleeve. "You might have _warned_ me," he tells her reproachfully. "I thought this house was abandoned."

"Well, _you_ might have told me where you were going," she shoots back. She glares from Draco to Harry and back again. " _Both_ of you."

Harry holds up a hand. "Hold on. Hermione, you _knew_ that Malfoy was our informant?"

She sighs. "Well, honestly, Harry, who else could it have been? I mean, no, I didn't know for _sure_ , since he Polyjuiced himself to look like someone different every time, but really, if you'd only stopped to _think_ about it…"

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Hermione blinks at him, surprised. "You hate him. You would never have trusted him. And we needed his information too badly to deal with your pigheadedness."

Draco laughs at that, actually _laughs_ , and Harry thinks he might just kill them both.

* * *

_"The information is good," Hermione insisted._

_"_ Too _good," Harry agreed darkly._

_She shrugged, frustrated and powerless. "We have to act on it. We can't not act on it. Seamus's parents could die."_

_"So could we," Ron pointed out._

_"Harry," Hermione said softly, forcing him to look at her. "The information is good. Trust me."_

_"I do," Harry said._

* * *

They use the Veritaserum all the same, just to be sure. Draco isn't lying. Harry's almost disappointed.

"He's right, you know," Hermione tells him afterwards, once Draco has headed upstairs to find a bed and sleep off the aftereffects of the potion. "It's not safe for him yet. Or for you, for that matter." She eyes him grudgingly. "It was smart of you to come here. I should've realized. You'll both be safe here, until the rest of the Death Eaters are rounded up."

" _Both_ of us? Please tell me you're joking."

She glares at him. "About this? No. And why not? Lord knows there's space, it's just the two of you. You could avoid each other easily enough."

Harry crosses his arms. "So we're to be shut in, then? Just like Sirius?"

"No, not just like Sirius," she says tiredly. "Do whatever you want, come and go as you please. I'm not going to assign you guards, the Aurors are overextended enough as it is. The war hit everyone hard. I'm just saying, this is a safe place. Unless, of course, you're interested in starting Auror training yourself—"

"No, Hermione."

She sighs. "Yes. Well. Just…be careful, Harry, please? After all this, it would be silly to lose you to some ex-Death Eater on the run with one last axe to grind."

He says nothing. After a moment, she turns to go. "I've got to tell Ron—"

"You could've told me," Harry says quietly, resentfully. "About Draco. You could've _trusted_ me."

Hermione meets his eyes, unflinching. "And _you_ could have trusted _me_ about the last Horcrux. But these things slip by in wartime, don't they?"

* * *

Having Draco suddenly around all the time bothers Harry, disturbs the sort of equilibrium he's established for himself since the war ended. At first, Harry's friends attempt to visit him, but they're soon put off by his open hostility, and Ron and Hermione at least seem to respect his need for space. But Draco either doesn't notice or just plain ignores Harry's self-imposed solitude, and it's hard to wallow in guilt and self-pity in the face of Draco's incessant needling and whinging about the state of the house and lack of house-elves. The situation is made all the more aggravating by its arbitrariness – either of them could up and leave if they so choose. It's just that there's nowhere better for them to _go_.

Harry wakes up one morning, and doesn't see the point of getting out of bed. But _Draco's_ down there, mucking about with Sirius's old things, and that just won't do. So he gets up.

There's no real reason for either of them to stay. There's no reason for them to go.

They stay.

* * *

Inevitably, Lupin drops by for tea. At least, Harry has a vague sense that it's the time of day that might be considered teatime, and that he is in possession of all the necessary components to make tea. He's just not sure he cares.

"It doesn't need to be for much longer," Lupin says quietly, watching Harry search through the kitchen for tea things. If he notices the absence of Harry's wand, he doesn't mention it. "The Aurors have nearly finished with the remaining Death Eaters. If there are any more out there, they can't have been particularly important or powerful. You won't need to remain here. I know the house has unpleasant memories for you."

 _And you,_ Harry doesn't say. He finds a teabag and drops it in a cup.

Lupin's eyes are concerned. "I don't want to see you follow Sirius's path, Harry. Not in this."

Harry shrugs and boils water in the teakettle.

Lupin sighs. "Your friends are doing well," he says, changing the subject. "Headmistress McGonagall appointed Neville as the new professor of Herbology at Hogwarts. You should go visit; I know it would mean a lot to him."

"Maybe," Harry says, not meaning it. He pours the hot water into the teacup, then passes the cup of tea over to Lupin.

Eventually, his former professor takes his leave. Harry sighs in relief and abandons the dirty cup in the kitchen.

Draco is waiting for him on the staircase. He levels his wand at Harry's throat, his eyes cold. Harry stiffens in shock.

"The werewolf is right," Draco tells him, his wand steady. "If you're too ungrateful to do well by those loyal to you, I'll be forced to instruct you in pureblood values. Right now you're a disgrace to your father's name, Potter."

Harry goes to visit Neville at Hogwarts.

* * *

He finds Neville in the greenhouse, softly crooning to a large, leafy, and shockingly ordinary looking potted plant. The air in the glass dome is warm and humid, but not unpleasant, like a sauna. Harry feels as though the heat is gently steaming away any impurities, cleansing, rejuvenating. He can understand why Neville is drawn to the place.

Neville glances up and smiles, then goes back to his plant.

"What is it?" Harry finally asks. "It doesn't look like anything we studied in Herbology."

"It's not," Neville says. "It grows in the Amazon rainforests. It has no magical properties itself, but the coating on the leaves can be made into a salve that heals burns from dragon fire." He strokes a long, glossy leaf lovingly. "I've been doing research on Muggle botany – there's more to it than most wizards credit."

"That's brilliant, Neville," Harry says, and means it. "I heard that McGonagall offered you the Herbology position – congratulations, you deserve it."

Neville ducks his head, almost shyly. "Thanks. I just wish the circumstances could be different."

Harry nods. Professor Sprout had raised an army of clinging vines against the Death Eaters in the last battle; no one knew how she'd fallen, but she'd been found lying still and pale in a tangle of green, a few vines still twining mournfully about her hands. One more loss to add to the final toll; Harry feels as though he might be crushed under the weight of it. He closes his eyes and steadies himself on the table.

"It's over and done with," Neville says quietly.

Harry looks over at him.

"Everything heals." Neville gestures about them, at the multitude of plants and growing things filling the greenhouse, spilling out over everything. "There's so much _life_ , still. Always."

After a long moment, Harry clears his throat awkwardly. "I actually came here to ask about…well, you knew Luna better than any of us, I guess."

Neville nods. There's no sadness in his eyes, just acceptance. "As well as anyone _could_ know Luna. We were…close, towards the end."

"I'm sorry." Harry's voice cracks a bit on the word. "God, Neville, I didn't ask her to – I don't even understand how she—"

"It's all right," Neville says. He smiles wistfully. "Luna just saw things differently from the rest of us. Always did. She saw what needed to be done, and that she was the only one who could do it. And she did it."

"It wasn't supposed to happen that way," Harry insists. "I knew that I – I'd asked Hermione to – no one else was supposed to die for me!"

"But she did," Neville says. "And now she has a whole new world to explore. To see." He puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. "She was laughing, at the end. I'd never seen her so happy."

"It should've been me," Harry mutters, shaking him off. He can hear Draco's voice in his mind, harsh and taunting, and he turns away.

Neville lets him go.

* * *

_"But only you can kill him," Hermione said, ghostly pale, and refused to do as he asked._

_He didn't know any suicide spells. He wasn't sure if they'd work properly, anyway. And Voldemort still had one Horcrux left, which meant they had failed._

_Luna whirled up to them, her eyes alight. "The faeries have joined battle," she whispered, and gave Harry a brilliant smile. "They taught me the shadow. Don't worry, Harry, I know what to do."_

_And she touched her wand gently, so gently, to the scar on his forehead, and spoke a word that shimmered in the air._

_Too late, he realized what she was doing. "Luna, don't—!"_

_It felt like something was tugging at him, and pain shot across his skull. Luna drew a globe of white-hot flame out of Harry's scar. It balanced on the tip of her wand for an instant as she laughed in delight._

_Then it exploded, and Harry watched helplessly as Luna's body crumpled to the ground._

* * *

Harry tumbles back out of the fireplace at Grimmauld Place. He pulls himself to his feet to find Draco eyeing him suspiciously from an armchair.

"How fares my dear old alma mater?" Draco inquires.

"It's just peachy," Harry snaps back. "The Astronomy Tower is still a pile of rubble, there are scorch marks and bloodstains everywhere, the dungeons are a mess, and I think there are a few new ghosts wandering the halls. I have no idea how McGonagall thinks she'll have the place cleaned up and ready in time for September. Neville's thriving and Luna's still dead, and your bloody family and friends are responsible for all this delightful destruction!"

Draco just smiles. "Is that the best you can do?"

Harry gapes at him for a minute, then turns on his heel and storms off.

* * *

And one unremarkable day, in her sad little room in St. Mungo's, Ginny tires of staring at the ceiling, sighs softly, and closes her eyes.

She never opens them again.

* * *

He finds Draco in the library, in the overstuffed armchair he seems to have claimed as his own. "Ginny Weasley's dead," Harry says.

Draco doesn't even glance up from his book. "Well, it's about time she made up her mind," he comments. "I can't abide malingerers."

Harry contemplates punching him in the face. It's probably not worth the bruised knuckles, though. "You could at least _pretend_ to care."

"Why?" Draco asks mildly. "I didn't like the girl, we both know that. Besides, better dead than the state she was in before. At least now it's official."

"Selfish little bastard, aren't you?"

"Selfish?" Draco sets his book aside, eyes narrowing. "At least I'm honest with myself, Potter. When was the last time you went to visit the Weasleyette? The last time you even _thought_ about her? But now that she's dead, you somehow expect me to fall all over myself feeling _sorry_ for you?"

Harry stalks toward him, fists clenched. "Excuse me?"

Draco stands to meet the challenge. "Hypocrite," he spits. "You're _using_ her now, just like you've been using the late Loony Lovegood. You can bitch and moan about how horrible it is, how unfair, how it should have been you. You know what? You're right. It _should_ have been you. Because you're wasting it. They gave you another shot at life, at actually _having_ a life, and you're fucking _wasting_ it. You selfish son of a bitch."

Harry shoves him, hard. Draco stumbles, but catches himself and shoves Harry right back. Before they have a chance to think, they're on the floor wrestling, fighting, pummeling each other with their fists, kicking and scratching for all they're worth. It's painful and awkward and hopelessly inelegant, and Harry thinks they should've done this _years_ ago.

Finally, Draco manages to pin Harry to the ground, and Harry's head slams against the floor so hard that the carpet doesn't even come close to dulling the pain. Sparks flare up behind his eyelids, leaving him momentarily stunned. "You sad little man," Draco hisses, breathing heavily from the fight and bleeding from a cut over his eye. "You've fooled them all. You didn't come to Grimmauld Place to be safe. You came here to _die_."

"And what the fuck are _you_ doing here, then?" Harry pants. The side of his face feels puffy and tender, and his vision is blurred by the blow to the head and the absence of his glasses, which lie broken and forgotten a few feet away. "Why did _you_ come here, Malfoy?"

"To _live_ ," Draco snarls, and with no warning whatsoever, covers Harry's mouth with his own.

It's not all that different from fighting, really. It's rough and ugly, lips mashing awkwardly together, teeth scraping, tongues twisting harshly against each other. The sort of kiss that bruises, that leaves its mark.

Harry sees stars, but that's probably just the head injury again.

* * *

_The night before the final battle, Ginny slipped into his room at the Hog's Head. "Shouldn't you be in your dormitory?" Harry asked, startled._

_She shrugged. "Snuck out." She pulled off her outer robe and tossed it onto an armchair. She wasn't wearing anything underneath._

_Harry's mouth felt very dry. "Ginny…"_

_"Either of us might die tomorrow," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm sick of waiting, Harry."_

_She made a good point. He took her hand, pulling her close, and drew the bed curtains closed around them._

* * *

Draco pulls back, and a thousand different things run through Harry's mind. Like, _what the fuck was that?_ or _I didn't know you were gay_ or _I didn't know_ I _was gay._ But what he actually says is, "This doesn't change a damn thing, you know."

Draco smirks, eyes glinting, and Harry inexplicably feels like he's just passed some kind of test. "Of course not," Draco says, and leans back down to bite Harry's lower lip.

The one time Harry and Ginny had had sex, neither had really known what they were doing. It had gone all right and felt better than all right, but they'd both been nervous and unsure and so very careful.

There's nothing careful about _this_. Clothing is yanked off and discarded with rough abandon, hands grasp and clench with bruising force, hips thrust and legs get tangled. Harry hisses when Draco's fingers probe his swollen cheek too roughly, but Draco doesn't seem to notice or care, so Harry equally disregards the bruises on Draco's ribs. It's all painful and hot and angry, and then suddenly Harry finds himself flipped over onto his stomach, face pressed into the carpet. Draco mutters an unfamiliar spell, and Harry feels a strange, smooth liquid heat in his most private of orifices, and that's all the warning he gets before Draco thrusts inside him.

And fuck, but it _hurts_ , and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He feels full and stretched and burning, and Draco is clawing at his sides and shoulder blades, growling incomprehensibly into his ear, and Harry just thrusts back against him. "Come on, then," Harry grunts, and they move together, fast and inelegant and painful and _just right._

* * *

It doesn't rain the next day, the day of Ginny's funeral. It's quite a lovely summer day, actually, which Harry thinks is all kinds of unfair. But then, the universe has never particularly cared about _fairness_.

Harry's cheek is purple and yellow and swollen, and his lip is bitten, and he has a couple of questionable marks on his neck. Heavy gray skies and a good, soaking rain would have hid the worst of it. Instead, he holds his head high in the sunlight and prays no one will notice.

No one does, or at least they pretend not to.

Ginny's headstone isn't far from Luna's. It's engraved with the Gryffindor crest, a lion rearing up on its haunches, eyes gleaming with intelligence. Harry wonders if the lion and Luna's raven will converse together on moonlit nights, if they'll comfort each other. He's seen stranger things.

Of course, Ginny's isn't the only new grave in this cemetery. Just the freshest.

Harry wonders what her last thoughts were. He wonders if she had any thoughts left at all. He wonders if she's touched that he waited until after she was gone – just _barely_ – before having sex with someone else, or if she couldn't care less. He wonders what Draco thinks of him now. He wonders why he cares.

He doesn't hear a word of the service.

* * *

Afterwards, he lingers by the grave in the hopes the Weasley clan will walk back to the Burrow without him. Mrs. Weasley is unnaturally quiet, and her eyes are red-rimmed but dry. He supposes she just doesn't have any tears left.

Then again, neither does he. If he ever had any in the first place.

Ron and Hermione are clinging to each other. When Hermione looks like she might break away and move toward Harry, Ron shakes his head and reels her back in.

Unexpectedly, it's George who hangs back with him. For a moment, they just eye each other, Harry warily, George assessing.

"I'm sorry," Harry says finally. "I'm sorry for bringing all this upon your family. I understand if you blame me."

"I don't," George replies frankly. "Mum might, a bit, but she'll get over it. Fred probably would've, but I'm not him."

"No, you're not," Harry agrees. He'd never thought of that before. The twins had always _seemed_ like the same person, even once he'd learned to tell them apart. But they weren't. Fred probably would've killed him by now.

"What happened to your face?" George asks. The ghost of a grin lightens his eyes briefly. He was always interested in a scuffle.

Harry touches his cheek, wincing. "Nothing special."

"Yeah, and how's the other bloke looking?"

Harry can feel his face flushing. It makes his swollen cheek throb. "Worse." It's not quite a lie.

"That's what they all say. I'll bet—" George breaks off abruptly, and Harry can _feel_ the empty space, the gap in the sentence that Fred is supposed to fill, the silence left in the wake.

"I know what it's like to be left behind," Harry blurts out, surprising himself.

George smiles sadly. "No," he says. "Not really. But it's all right."

* * *

Back in Grimmauld Place, nothing changes, as though the incident the day before were just another half-forgotten memory of the war.

"How's the Weasleyette?" Draco asks in mock-politeness, when Harry emerges from the fireplace. "Does her spirit linger?"

"Shut up," Harry mutters, and starts heading for the corridor.

"Three Weasley spawn down, four to go!" Draco calls after him cheerfully.

Harry hurls a book at his head, and Draco cackles appreciatively.

* * *

Hermione comes in one day and tells them the Aurors have found Pansy Parkinson's body.

"Took you long enough," Draco sneers, but his face is ashen, and he doesn't call Hermione a Mudblood or taunt Harry for the rest of the afternoon, and he retires early.

"Who was Parkinson working for, in the end?" Harry asks, after Draco has gone.

"She wasn't," Hermione replies. "She just got in someone's way."

* * *

_A relatively minor skirmish between Harry's team and a couple of Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic, after Percy Weasley tipped them off. It wasn't in the Department of Mysteries, or in any sort of controlled environment. It was the third floor, an ordinary workplace, now with desks overturned and papers scattered and ordinary Ministry workers ducking in terror in a corner. A Death Eater pointed his wand at Harry and shouted a word; Harry responded instinctively with a spell that made the room explode._

_Someone screamed, and when the dust cleared, the Death Eaters had vanished. A young woman lay motionless in the rubble, a clipboard still clutched tightly in her arms. Harry leaned down and brushed her dark hair out of her face. She was only a couple of years older than him. She'd been ahead of him at Hogwarts. Ravenclaw, he remembered fuzzily._

_"Penelope Clearwater," Ron said dully, at his shoulder. "She used to date Percy."_

_She hadn't been involved in the war at all. Harry wondered if that made her death even more pointless, if death ever had a point._

* * *

Draco doesn't come back downstairs for three days. Harry tries not to care, but the house seems strangely empty. He sits in Draco's usual armchair for a minute or so, just because he can, but it feels oddly intrusive, and he gets up again.

For the first time, Harry wonders if Draco keeps a mental tally of the dead, too.

When Draco finally returns to his armchair, scathing wit still well intact, Harry allows himself a secret sigh of relief.

* * *

The bruise on his cheek fades eventually. He almost misses it, in an embarrassing sort of way. It had been a symbol, he supposes. Of pain. Of something real. Of being alive.

It occurs to Harry that maybe being alive isn't such a bad thing after all.

He steals glances at Draco out of the corner of his eyes, and wishes he dared to throw the first punch again.

* * *

Harry decides that maybe it's time to get out of this house just for the sake of going out. He Floos to Diagon Alley, and for a few minutes, it's a bit of all right. Here, at least, not much seems to have changed. July is gradually bleeding into August and soon the schoolchildren will be back buying books and supplies with their frazzled parents, but for now, the streets are hot and relatively peaceful.

It doesn't last. He doesn't know how it happened, but suddenly there's a reporter from the Daily Prophet sticking his wand in Harry's face and eagerly demanding the hero's tale, and what was killing the Dark Lord like and what have you been up to these last few months and what great feats do you hope to accomplish next, Mr. Potter, and one reporter turns into a swarm and the people on the street are staring at his all-too-famous face, and—

It's difficult and dangerous, Apparating without a wand, but Harry somehow manages it without splinching himself and collapses into a couch in the library of Grimmauld Place, closing his eyes in relief.

Draco looks up from a book in surprise.

"I want to go someplace where no one has ever heard my name," Harry says hoarsely.

He expects Draco to come out with some appropriately contemptuous response, but nothing comes. He opens his eyes. Draco is watching him with an odd expression on his face.

"Yeah," Draco finally says. He looks tired now, almost haggard. "I think I know what you mean."

* * *

A lone ex-Death Eater, cornered by a team of Aurors, lashes out with his wand and, purely by chance, manages to kill Mad-Eye Moody. It's all over the news, but Harry doesn't read the news anymore. Ron has to owl him to let him know.

Harry shreds the letter into tiny pieces, wishing it were the (now incarcerated) former Death Eater. _What the hell does it matter anymore?_ he wants to scream. _Stupid idiot, don't you know the war is over?_

He doesn't realize he's said the words aloud, doesn't realize there are tears streaming down his cheeks, until he feels cool hands gently prying the bits of paper out of his grasp, pushing him to sit down in the armchair. "No," he hears Draco say quietly. "For some people, the war never ended."

Harry presses his face into his hands, torn between embarrassment and rage.

After a few long moments, Draco starts speaking again. "He was terrible," Draco says in a low monotone, as if to himself, "but so powerful, and he told us exactly what we thought we wanted to hear. That we purebloods were the great ones. That our blood was being diluted by lesser beings, our traditions uprooted, our dreams torn apart. That we deserved better.

"I was barely sixteen. I was angry. You had everything I wanted; respect, fame, all the silly schoolboy sorts of glory. You had taken my father away from me. And he told me I was special. Trusted. Valuable.

"But just in case, he held my mother hostage."

And on, and on, the story Harry had never thought to ask of him.

* * *

"I lost everything in this war. Everything. You can't even begin to imagine. You think it's over? It's not, not really, not ever. I'll always be a Malfoy. I'll always be seen as my father's son. I'll never be trusted, never granted positions of honor, never given any medals. You think you've been tainted by all this? Try living a week in my shoes. But I'm alive," and Draco's eyes flashed gray fire. "I'm alive, and Voldemort's gone, and that's all that really matters. That's enough."

* * *

_Afterwards, Ginny curled up against him, naked body slick with sweat and sex, perfectly curved. Harry's gut clenched with fear and something he wasn't sure was love, but she didn't seem to need to hear the words, so it didn't matter._

_He thought she was asleep. "Promise me you won't die tomorrow," he whispered._

_She reached up and touched his cheek, startling him. "It's not about living or dying. Just…winning."_

_He knew exactly what she meant. Still, he'd rather die knowing she was all right._

* * *

He lives. Others died. It isn't fair.

The universe has never concerned itself with fairness.

He didn't want Luna to sacrifice herself for him, but she chose to anyway.

He thought he might have loved Ginny, but she's gone now.

He doesn't have nightmares anymore.

Maybe it's not his fault.

The thought makes him feel guiltier than ever.

* * *

He finds the key in the pocket of his old school robes. He goes upstairs and unlocks Sirius's old room. He opens the armoire. He picks up his wand.

He goes down to the library. Draco is in the usual armchair. Harry points his wand at Draco's forehead.

"I'm going to ask you to do something," Harry says harshly. "And I need to know you'll do it."

Draco looks up warily, batting the wand away. "Or else?"

"Or else nothing," Harry says, letting his hands drop to his sides. The wand is loose between his fingers, achingly familiar. He should never have gone back for it. He lets it fall to the floor.

Draco stands. "What is it, then?"

"Obliviate me," Harry tells him.

After a long moment – "What?"

"Everything, take it all away," Harry says, and he's ashamed to realize that he's almost _pleading_ but he can't stop. "Make me a Muggle again. Let me live an ordinary life as an ordinary person who thinks magic is only real in fairy stories and has never watched anyone die, killed anyone, done anything of interest or note—"

"It's all right," Draco says, and there's an odd note in his voice, something strange and unexpected and Harry suddenly runs out of words, stands mute and broken in the slanting late afternoon light. "It'll be all right," Draco says again, and he reaches out and draws Harry in.

It's nothing like the last (first) time. Draco's mouth feels softer somehow, and the press of his lips to Harry's is light at first, almost gentle, and that's something Harry has never associated with Draco Malfoy, that gentleness. "I can't," Harry whispers against Draco's lips, and he doesn't know _what_ , exactly, he can't, but he doesn't have to because impossibly, inexplicably, Draco understands.

"You don't have to," Draco murmurs, and kisses him again. His tongue gently teases Harry's lips apart, deepening the kiss, and there's nothing rough or fast about it. It's tantalizingly slow, probing, gradually building in heat until Harry has to pull away, half-gasping for air.

They just stand there for a moment, faces only inches apart, eyes wide and breathing heavy. "Make me forget," Harry finally says.

Draco shakes his head, slowly. "No," he says. "But I can give you new memories. If you'll do the same for me."

Harry reaches up and clasps the back of Draco's neck. "I'll try," he says softly, and pulls Draco back in for another kiss.

* * *

It's not perfect, but it's a good enough way to begin.

* * *

He goes to meet Hermione in person. He owes her that much.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I know you're disappointed with me."

She sighs, leaning back into the couch. She's got a new flat these days. It's neat and bright and feminine, but there's a Chudley Cannons pennant on the wall and a large pair of trainers in a corner, so it's probably not just _her_ flat. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, and Harry suddenly notices the glint of a small gem on a ring on one finger. He really has been keeping himself out of the loop lately.

"I'm not disappointed," she tells him. "I was, maybe, but…I don't know. Ron keeps telling me I should leave you alone to figure things out for yourself."

"Yeah," Harry says. "You should listen to him sometimes."

Hermione smiles at that, a private smile, then looks serious again. "It's just – no matter what you do, from now on.... You're the Boy Who Lived. You killed Voldemort. Everyone will be watching you, always."

Now it's Harry's turn to smile. "Maybe not." He stands, slinging a small bag over his shoulder. "Tell Ron I'll see him around, yeah?"

"Where are you going?" she asks, concerned again.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her, and leans down to kiss her cheek. "You'll do well for yourself, Hermione. You always did. You'll be happy. Just trust me to do the same for myself."

He's sorry he'll miss the wedding, but he doesn't mention it, just smiles and walks out the door.

* * *

_"Hogwarts," Harry repeated, glancing down at the parchment and the horrible, crucial information it contained. "Tomorrow night. You're sure?"_

_"Positive," Ron said, grim and pale. "He means to end it, Harry. This is it."_

_"We can evacuate," Hermione was still insisting. "Get the students out, find a new place to hide—"_

_Harry shook his head. "It ends tomorrow night. It's time. Nagini's the only Horcrux left." He didn't even flinch as he said it. Lying had become so easy for him._

_"Are you sure he'll even bring her along?" Hermione asked worriedly. "If he attacks without her, then we're—"_

_"He'll bring her," Harry said firmly. "She's one of his best spies, he'll need her for this."_

_Ron nodded. "I'll go inform McGonagall, then. We've got a lot to do and not much time left." He glanced over once, questioningly, at Hermione, then headed off._

_Harry caught Hermione's arm as she started to follow Ron. "I need you to promise me something, Hermione."_

_"Anything," she said, and meant it._

_He wanted to tell her everything. He didn't. "Try to stay near me during the battle. And if I ever ask something of you –_ anything _, no matter what it is – I need you to do it. No questions, no hesitation." She frowned at him, but he just shook his head. "Trust me on this one, please. I won't ask you to do anything unless it's absolutely necessary, but if it is, I need to know that you'll obey me, just the once. Do you promise?"_

_"I promise," she said, flashed him a nervous smile, and hurried off after Ron._

_Harry remained where he was, staring down at the parchment. Hogwarts. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow night, he was going to die._

* * *

Draco's waiting for him on the sloping roof of Grimmauld Place, rucksack slung over one shoulder, broomstick like an arrow jutting out over the London townhouses, pointing towards escape. "So where, exactly, are we going?"

Harry grins recklessly. "Someplace where no one has ever heard my name."

Draco cocks his head to one side, considering, then nods. "We've got a ways to go, then."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, and mounts his own broom. "Race you there!" He kicks off with a whoop, and Draco follows an instant later, chasing across the sky, vanishing like wisps of smoke into the clouds.

They aren't seen again for a long, long time.


End file.
